


Like Battling Rams

by ashadowonthewall



Category: Skins (UK), Skins (US)
Genre: Angst, Bathroom Sex, Character Death Mentions, Consensual Violence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drinking Games, Fight Sex, Frottage, Homophobia, M/M, Male Slash, POV Male Character, Public Sex, Sexist Language, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Slash, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashadowonthewall/pseuds/ashadowonthewall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt <i>It all starts with a drinking game...</i>.</p><p>I wrote this fic about two years ago...I think? I don't even know what I was thinking back then, to be quite honest. :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Battling Rams

Cook doesn’t know how or why he even got into this but he doesn’t give a shit because he knows he can beat this fucker, this pussy arse American posh wanker with his faggy white suit and TV charm. The guy has a fucking hot girlfriend though, Cook noticed her first when they both came in to the pub, he had his arm wrapped around her waist when the two of them sat down to order themselves some drinks.

Michelle was her name, Cook overheard it in passing, she was one top babe, fucking amazing tits, long legs, gorgeous face and hair; he’d always heard American girls were hot and seeing this girl was living proof of that. He wondered just what the fuck a knock out like that was doing hanging out with a shrimp like this guy. Tony…something…he can’t pronounce the guy’s last name; it’s some weird foreign shit. He must have done something to piss her off because she stormed out of the pub just a few minutes after they came in, grabbing her handbag and walking out the door.

Tony was bragging to some of the people at the bar about how much he could drink. Cook couldn’t help but laugh; nobody in Keith’s pub could top Keith himself, the man was a fucking monster, he could scull down bottles of hard shit and it wouldn’t faze him. Cook himself came close; he was the best drinker of his group. Once when Freddie tried to take him on in a drinking game, the guy ended up puking his guts out while Cook was only walking a little funny. JJ never drank so he was never any fun at all. 

It didn’t help that Cook was still thinking about Freddie when he was sitting at the bar, listening in on Tony’s bullshit. The scars all over his body, the limp he got from John Foster’s bat smacking down hard against his leg was killing him. His leg was a reminder of Freddie, and what Cook had lost the night doctor fucking psycho took his best mates life. 

He missed Freddie; every time he thought about him he figured the easiest thing to do was to get as thoroughly pissed as fucking possible. It hurt, because it had been almost a year since then but Freddie never left his mind, he still hasn’t even now that he’s sitting on opposite ends of the table, his hoodie on and a shot glass in his hand, staring the other guy down as everyone else stands around them cheering them on. Cook tells himself that he’s doing this for his friend, the best friend he loved above everyone else, even Effy Stonem. The truth is he doesn’t even know why he’s doing it, maybe to prove something to himself. But he doesn’t even give a fuck, he’s doing it because he wants to and because he’s a winner not a pussy, and he’s going to prove it to this guy, who’s staring him down with an expression that reminds him of Foster that makes his blood boil with rage.

He downs the first shot glass, and so does Tony. Cook takes down another one straight afterward, the burning of the liquid sending straight down to his chest. He’s done this enough times to get used to it. If he’s become anything since Freddie’s death it’s both a fugitive and a heavy drinker. He’s got nothing to live for; he’s a piece of shit and he knows it, which is why he’ll beat this guy. Tony looks like someone with money, a good life, a hot girlfriend, everything he wants. He’s not used to living hard; he’d die if he faced the same things Cook had to face in his life before, which is why Cook is positive he’ll beat him, even in this pathetic drinking game.

Tony keeps downing the shots, and he beats his chest, shaking it off every time he does it and Cook laughs out loud. 

“Had enough yeah, mate?”

“Not even close,” Tony says, smirking at him in that smart-arsed way that makes Cook want to punch him out again.

\--

All around them people around them are cheering them on, cheering Cook on. Some of them are making bets; it’s a fucking madhouse. It reminds him of the island back where his dad lived, the place where he took Effy. The painful memory comes back to him again, the granny race, Effy picking Freddie over him, losing his best mate and his girlfriend on the same day, his arsehole father trying to singe his fucking face off. The pain shoots through his leg at the memory, his cheeks and forehead burn and drip with sweat, his eyes fill with tears and he downs another shot. His lungs are on fire but he doesn’t care, he’ll beat this guy or die trying.

Tony drinks the rest of the vodka while Cook keeps sitting there feeling light-headed. He doesn’t know how this guy is doing it, but he’s not about to give up. His vision is blurred and a rotten feeling starts up in the pit of his stomach. The image of Freddie is still fresh in his mind and the pain shoots through his leg so hard he downs the shot glass without even thinking.

It’s then that he hits the floor, and everyone starts cheering Tony on. Cook can’t believe he’s lost. Tony stands just above him, still smiling down and it makes him rage, his vision is still blurry as fuck but he knows he’ll be able to smack him one if he wants to. He stands up and pushes the guy and Tony falls backward hitting the floor, everybody else backs away. They know better than to step into a fight with James fucking Cook. 

Cook tries his best to stay focused, the amount of vodka he’s drunk makes it hard and he stumbles every time he moves forward. The pain in his leg is excruciating. Tony has got his fists up at him, readying himself for a fight. Cook moves forward and gets a right jab to the face, he stumbles over a table and knocks some glass over, thankfully he doesn’t cut himself but he’s fucking furious and wants nothing better than to beat Tony’s head in.

“C’mon,” Tony shouts. “Get up and fight!”

Cook lunges himself at him, tackling the guy and pushing him down to the ground, he’s landing fists on his face but Tony is blocking them, Cook gets a left jab to the jaw and he falls back again. This time Tony is on top of him, landing punches at his head, and Cook feels like his brain will turn to mush any minute if he doesn’t protect himself. He grabs the guy by the throat and rolls over; the two of them wrestle on the floor before throwing each other off, standing up and facing each other again with their fists raised high. 

He doesn’t know how much more he can take of this, he’s dizzy and his whole body feels weak and in pain. Tony doesn’t seem to care at all; he’s landing more punches every time Cook moves forward. The shouts and screams of the people around them are growing by the minute and Cook is afraid the cops will come any minute now. If they do he’s screwed, he’s a fugitive who’s been on the run for almost a year, they won’t hesitate to put him in cuffs on the spot.

Cook does the only thing he can, and grabs Tony by the shirt, pressing their heads together. They’re both grimacing, huffing and puffing, their fists raised at each other’s faces. It brings him back to Freddie, and Cook hates himself because he didn’t like what he did to his friend that night. 

Tears stream down his eyes at the memory and in one swift movement, he grabs Tony’s face and kisses him hard on the mouth the same way he did with Freddie when he knew they couldn’t stop fighting. It’s the only way he knows how to get out of this, and Tony doesn’t seem to care, he’s kissing him back, the smell of vodka on his breath and hotness of his forehead sending the blood straight down to Cook’s dick, and he finds himself disturbingly hard right then without even trying to understand why.

\--

Everybody stops shouting when the two boys kiss and when they pull away, Cook wrestles Tony, shoving him hard against the wall, the two of them rolling together until they fall through a door that leads them to the bathroom. Cook grabs Tony by the shirt and kisses him again, he can feel the other boy’s hard-on pressing against his leg and it doesn’t surprise him. The same thing happened between him and Freddie once when they both had a fight, and Cook knows what’s coming next. The thought of it makes him sick to his stomach.

They stumble into the bathroom, still wrestling and cursing at each other when they fall into a cubicle. Tony tries to punch Cook, but Cook blocks his blow and grabs the other boy’s face, kissing him, trying to keep his mind on Freddie all the while. His leg is numb by that point, and he squeezes Tony hard to him as their tongues swirl in each other’s mouths, kissing like guys do, rough, hard and hot, the taste of vodka and cigarettes filling their lips.

Cook punches Tony hard and Tony falls back against the wall of the cubicle laughing hard. There's blood just above his eyebrow, and he wipes it with his hand, charging back at Cook and pushing him against the wall too. Tony is stronger than Cook gave him credit for when he first saw him, he’s still not going to lose this fight thought, which is why he kisses Tony again, unbuttoning his trousers and freeing his aching cock from it’s constraints. The both of them have got their pants down them, Cook’s hand moving up and down the length of Tony’s dick while Tony bites down on his neck, his hand moving down to grab Cook’s balls. 

They’re panting and sweating hard then their breaths hot and heavy, Cook leaning his head back, a moan escaping his lips as he feels Tony run his cock against his own. This is a different kind of game and they both know it, what surprises Cook is how eager Tony is. It’s disturbing but it fucking turns him on in a way he only remembered feeling with two people in his life, Effy and Freddie. 

Tony’s breathing is hard and wanting as he moves his cock against Cook’s, and Cook knows one of them is bound to give in soon. They’re changing movements, their hands slowing down, or speeding up, the sloshing of pre-come filling their ears as they continue thrusting against each other like battling rams. Cook won’t come first, he fucking won’t because he’ll lose, if he can’t beat this guy in a fight, he’ll beat him in other ways because that’s who he is.

“Oh fuck,” Tony cries, his head tilting back and his eyes rolling in the back of his head as he gushes all over Cook’s hand. Cook comes not long afterward a harsh moan escaping his lips as he blows his load all over his own hand and Tony’s cock. The two of them fall down to the floor, breaking into a sudden fit of laughter, their arms wrapped around each other with Tony resting his head on Cook’s shoulder as they both try to steady their breathing.

Cook knew he’d won this game.


End file.
